Editorials
‘Friday the 13th’ and Its Bigger, Badder, and All Around Better Upgrade [Revenge of the Remakes]
Welcome to ‘Revenge of the Remakes,‘ where columnist Matt Donato takes us on a journey through the world of horror remakes. We all complain about Hollywood’s lack of originality whenever studios announce new remakes, reboots, and reimaginings, but the reality? Far more positive examples of refurbished classics and updated legacies exist than you’re willing to remember (or admit). The good, the bad, the unnecessary – Matt’s recounting them all.
It’s been over a decade since Jason Voorhees slashed through silver screens thanks to ongoing rights-fight legal lockups. Explicitly, since 2009 when Platinum Dunes dared defy the arbiters of horror nostalgia who’d quiver at the mention of a modernized Friday The 13th renovation. Studio trends at the dawn of the 21st century all but assured a return to Camp Crystal Lake was inevitable. Much like a core subset of horror fans revolting against the idea of Jason’s rebirth because nothing compares to the “good old days” of slasher infamy. We love to romanticize our favorites through crimson-colored glasses, don’t we? Some sectors of the internet, at least.
Enter director Marcus Nispel, writers Damian Shannon and Mark Swift, and the production studio behind multiple “dark and gritty” 2000s horror remakes. Given how I’ve already covered Platinum Dunes’ contributions to the great “remake boom” from “The Good” (The Hitcher) to “The Dazzlingly Atrocious” (A Nightmare On Elm Street), it’s safe to say Michael Bay was a prolific contributor to a storied era in genre history. Wisecrack beyond your heart’s desire, but Bay’s formula had its successes, two of which belong to Nispel himself. Friday The 13th commemorates a reunion between filmmaker and financier because when you’ve already proven yourself a formidable remake creator, you boast the honor of rewriting New Jersey’s supernatural past with a burst of franchise vigor that, you’re reading correctly, is better than the original.
The Approach
Friday The 13th (2009) opts not to restrictively parallel the events of Sean S. Cunningham’s introductory sleepaway stalker. Shannon and Swift distill the successes of Friday The 13th (1980), Friday The 13th Part 2, Friday The 13th Part III, and Friday The 13th: The Final Chapter into a streamlined, scream-lined slasher that itself represents a curious assessment of the franchise as a whole. The Jason Voorhees we know, the Friday The 13th lore that transfixes pop-culture, doesn’t become canon until (clock it) sixty minutes into Friday The 13th Part III. Nispel executes a Friday The 13th hybrid that anyone new to the cadaverous series might expect the authentic Friday The 13th mirrors. Not a Pamela Voorhees origin tale followed by 80s campground hunt-and-preys that recycle the same blueprint to a repetitive detriment.
In the remake, Clay Miller (Jared Padalecki) is searching for his sister Whitney (Amanda Righetti) after she disappears while camping with her (weed harvester) companions. He crosses paths with Jenna (Danielle Panabaker) and Travis (Travis Van Winkle) while spreading fliers in a gas station, where the latter fratbag asserts his locker room charms. They part ways, with Trent’s SUV full of college-vacation victims driving straight towards his family’s isolated woodland estate while Clay continues to canvas the town. Trent’s friends start dying one-by-one, Clay knocks on Trent’s front door, and the legend of Jason Voorhees grasps all parties in its cold, scummy clutches. Clay’s search becomes a fight for survival against an undead executioner, which leads to the discovery of underground tunnels where a masked murderer haunts. No shortage of lewd sexual encounters, grim fates, and all the targeted slasher malevolence we’ve come to expect.
Shannon and Swift hit fast-forward on Friday The 13th lore because the public wants their Jason Voorhees. Pamela’s arc as an unhinged mother ends with a black-and-white decapitation during the opening credits of Nispel’s aughts interpretation. Whitney’s stoner-rock boyfriend comments how his sweetie resembles a mysterious woman pictured inside a locket spied near “Jason’s” room. It doesn’t take three films for Shelly Finkelstein (Larry Zerner) to bestow Jason his goaltender look; Nispel’s version finds his hockey mask in a barn near the forty-five-minute marker. You could even argue 2009’s twenty-five-minute cold open – filled with mutilation – is a callback to Friday The 13th Part 2, where Alice’s (Adrienne King) cold open runs twelve minutes and only slays a single once-final girl. Why waste time?
Does It Work?
Here’s the part where I say Friday The 13th (2009) functions more efficiently than Cunningham’s original and Steve Miner’s two concurrent sequels. A Friday The 13th marathon does little favors to the reductive replay value of the franchise’s first three films, churning and burning through camp counselors as mythology builds at a snail’s pace. In a single entry, Shannon and Swift find frighteningly gratifying ways to bowl through what’s essentially a “Jason Voorhees 101” session. Familiarity is sharpened and trimmed of fat all in one prime cut (you still get your shattered window grabs and whatnot). Pamela’s introduction as Jason’s motivating voice, Jason’s easily manipulated connection to mommy dearest, costume designs that range from child to bag-head to deformed hulk to his trademark attire; everything fits snugly into a substantial yet rapid-fire correction of the initial trilogy’s shortcomings.
Furthermore, the defender of the tunnels has logged on. Nitpicks often highlight how “ridiculous” it is that Jason Voorhees built tunnel systems under Camp Crystal Lake, which in itself is a ridiculous dealbreaker. We’re talking about a franchise where Jason beamed into space, sailed a boat to Manhattan, rivaled a Carrie knockoff, was reanimated underwater like Frankenstein, turned into a demonic possession critter, battled Freddy Krueger; need I continue? If anything, Shannon and Swift at least offer an excuse as to how Jason can live unseen and slash without intervention. You’ve upgraded Jason’s dilapidated shack to counselor’s digs with an entire subterranean workstation complete with grindstone and plenty of expansion nooks for activities that include kidnapping matriarchal lookalikes. Jason can hide, his hostages can squeal to no avail, and the script reaches that much farther to explain the otherwise inexplicable.
Let’s spotlight attention on Whitney at this point because another big “does it work” aspect is Jason’s decision to spare one single victim. Again, I can hear the outcries. “Jason is a programmed killbot; this doesn’t make sense.” Then Shannon and Swift integrate the Pamela hypnotization, and we realize Whitney’s role in the ordeal.
Also? Friday The 13th is a remake, after all. Shannon and Swift reserve rights to characterize their Jason Voorhees as applicable. Platinum Dunes permit their remakes some massive swings, and compared to choices like in A Nightmare On Elm Street, when the script fatally triples down on Freddy Krueger’s pedophilia past, Nispel oversees a reverential alteration that pays homage to Jason’s trademark mamma issues. Of course, remakes are in a tough spot because they’re deemed unoriginal by default because of their practice – and yet, when the movies do release and serve something fresh, they’re criticized for tainting the source material’s sanctity by choosing to tinker outside the provided box.
The Result
Credit to Marcus Nispel’s Friday The 13th because it’s either my champion or runner-up Platinum Dunes remake, and outside the studio, stands a force to be reckoned with when remaking such a historic property. It’s everything fans have come to adore about Jason Voorhees, but also unlocks an even more vicious streak through a modern horror lens. The way Jason sprints forward and slams his machete into Richie’s (Ben Feldman) skull asserts this inescapability and brute primality that’s equatable to first encountering Zack Snyder’s full-throttle zombies in Dawn Of The Dead. The dedication to fan servicing while allowing creators some wiggle-room for signature freedoms tweaks the formula just-enough while still respecting its dependability. We’re not watching a new Friday The 13th for high-concept Cabin In The Woods redefinitions; slaughter, scintillate and slice away.
Nispel benefits a great deal from the “gritty” overtones that doused many a remake in shadowy, impenetrable darknesses. That’s not to discredit sunny lakeside sequences where Jason pays homage to the speargun kill in Friday The 13th Part III when Nolan (Ryan Hansen) gets an arrow through the skull and topless wakeboarder Chelsea (Willa Ford) finds herself impaled through a wooden dock when trying to hide. Even still, this movie is so dreary and dimly shaded that Jason brightens floodlights instead of knocking out the power for once. Nispel embeds a deadly mood that sustains as Clay fights for the sibling held captive by an ever-imposing maniac. Little shots of Jason standing adopt Trent’s lowest rooftop, perched like the king of a castle surveying all he oversees in the deepest nightshades. Jason Voorhees is a brainless, instinct-driven assassination machine, and Nispel unleashes his brand of netherbeast with threatening severity the likes few franchise protagonists have faced.
Maybe this is unpopular, perhaps it’s not, but Derek Mears is one enraged, mean-like-a-shark Jason Voorhees in one of the character’s leading portrayals. “This ain’t your auntie’s Jason Voorhees,” so to speak. The softness of Jared Padalecki’s concern, the switcheroo final girl misdirect that Danielle Panabaker plays, and Travis Van Winkle’s “Stupendous Tits” encapsulation of slasher-jock toxicity are all standouts. Shannon and Swift lean into the debauchery and dimwittedness of genre archetypes distracted by the sleaze-o-leeriness that defined 80s slashers, especially Friday The 13th sequels. That said, this is still Mears’ showcase as a mute, no-rules killer who stabs through anyone dumb enough to challenge even the notion of his existence. It’s for a whole separate article, but Mears is in the upper echelon of Jason Voorhees mindsets and physicality. He hacks through the fluff, Nispel dispels comedic undertones, and the movie bursts from its grave with a lick-your-chops vengeance.
The Lesson
Jason Voorhees is one of the least compelling slasher villains in practice but headlines one of the most accomplished remakes of “untouchable” horror heavyweights. The first three Friday The 13th films are wobbly franchise builders that are better answered in 2009’s Friday The 13th as a single dosage of horror adrenaline. Unfortunately, it’s also a perfect example of how fandoms are quickest to judge harshly based on newer release dates while falling into comfortable trenches of that past because nostalgia reigns supreme. A rebooted Friday The 13th couldn’t *possibly* be good because it’s not *my* Jason Voorhees, eh? You’re right. He’s bigger, badder, and a whole lot better.
So what did we learn?
- A remake can consider a source franchise as a whole versus one-to-one comparisons; the best study, cherry-pick, and addresses larger ambitions.
- Damian Shannon and Mark Swift are unafraid to suggest that something we hold immaculate is flawed, showing their work.
- Marcus Nispel never crumbles under the weight of Jason Voorhees’ mountainous presence, nor does he shy away from unveiling a new generation’s Jason versus splicing Jason’s old image into updated surroundings.
- Erases this idea of “untouchables” that devalues the art of remakes because 2009’s Friday The 13th earns its place alongside the countless other franchise entries that all assert their merit.
- We have our cake and eat it too as horror fans because we’re allowed a Friday The 13th that works as any Friday The 13th should, while also carving something different that’s worthwhile in a standalone sense.
My opinions on the Friday The 13th franchise, as a whole, once made me the villain of Horror Twitter for almost two days. My ranking of Nispel’s Friday The 13th at my #4 slot barely scratched the surface of the internet’s disgust. It’s got Jason roasting horned-up babes over campfires while their partners scream in agony, bloody-ruthless kills that recite Tom Savini’s early SFX craftsmanship, and a new beginning that, frankly, was bound to happen. A remake that never should be written off because it suggests younger generations deserve coming-of-horror experiences on behalf of a maestro of massacres many already cite as an “inspiration.”
Less fighting about whose Jason matters most, more imagining how Jason could return once Sean S. Cunningham and Victor Miller settle their professional quarrel with a final, thunderous blow.
Five decades ago, Stephen King published the story of a bullied girl with telekinetic powers and forever changed the world of horror.
Carrie follows a high school misfit who seeks revenge for a hideous prank by psychically destroying her senior prom. The name Carrie White has become synonymous with the concept of a formal dance thanks to a flawless adaptation from Brian De Palma. Now fifty years after the film’s release, Mike Flanagan is putting his own stamp on the troubling story.
Rather than a feature film, the writer/director will expand King’s relatively slim debut novel into an eight-episode miniseries for Amazon Prime set to premiere on October 7.
Flanagan is no stranger to the world of Stephen King. A long-time Constant Reader, he first made waves with his daring adaptation of Gerald’s Game (2017), a novel many fans considered un-filmable. His underrated Doctor Sleep merges the disparate plot of Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining with King’s original source material, and his 2024 genre-bending tearjerker The Life of Chuck faithfully executes one of the author’s most metaphysical novellas.
He’s currently mired in pre-production for an expansive adaptation of The Dark Tower series, keystone to King’s connected universe, and Warner Bros. recently announced that Flanagan will helm a new version of The Mist, King’s 1980 novella which sees a small Maine town overrun by otherworldly monsters.
Considering the vast array of the author’s previously unadapted material, an obvious question arises. Why reimagine Carrie in 2026? Noting the timeless nature of the content, Flanagan expressed his desire to bring the story of a bullied girl into modern times, mirroring his approach to Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House and Edgar Allan Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher. He explained, “The only way to approach it was to build something new out of the ingredients of Carrie. Otherwise, there’s really no purpose in trying to retread ground that’s been so beautifully walked before.”
His miniseries will maintain the novel’s bloody bookends while delivering “big surprises” along the way.
A New Prom Night Nightmare
The roughly 60-second teaser introduces Summer H. Howell as Carrie White just before the moment of catastrophe. Standing in a prom dress, she smiles at her applauding classmates with an ominous crown perched upon her head. Moments later, Carrie unleashes a rage-filled scream into the night air while promgoers rush for the exit doors. But careful examination of this scene shows Carrie wearing a different, albeit dirty dress as she seems to telekinetically punish her peers.
In an exclusive first look with Entertainment Weekly, Flanagan explains that in his version of the story, “the events of that prom are going to be completely different.” An open trunk emitting a crimson glow does hint at the pig’s blood dumped on Carrie’s head, but it’s likely Flanagan’s formal dance will be a different kind of horror altogether. Despite these changes, the series may end with the widespread destruction outlined in the source material. Unlike any previous adaptations, King’s novel ends with the near-total destruction of Chamberlain, Maine. A flaming street in Flanagan’s trailer promises similar carnage no matter what prank sparks Carrie’s deadly revenge.
The Monstrous Addition of Social Media
On the opposite end of this fiery conclusion is an extreme act of bullying that brings together the story’s main cast. King’s novel begins as Carrie gets her first period while showering in the girls’ locker room. Completely unaware of the concept of menstruation, the sheltered girl thinks she’s bleeding to death. Her classmates respond with vitriolic rage. Led by ultra-mean girl Chris Hargensen (Alison Thornton), they mock the terrified teen while pelting her with tampons. Glimpses of this disturbing event reveal that Flanagan has excised the scene’s nudity while adding a seismic update. As Carrie sobs in the shower stall, Chris and her friends film the breakdown with their phones.
Other scenes note the presence of social media, bringing King’s fifty-year-old story into the digital age.
Flanagan’s adaptation promises to explore the destructive power of social media, an often invisible entity with a potential for harm rivaling Carrie’s own powers. While King’s tormented heroine suffers in front of a small group of girls, Flanagan’s version of the incident will likely become a viral video, potentially circling the globe on social media. Similar to Katt Shea’s criminally underrated The Rage: Carrie 2, which includes elements of revenge porn exploitation, Flanagan’s modern retelling will distinguish itself by exploring the nebulous cruelty of online bullying, a force ten times more powerful than the irl pranks King first envisioned.
A Completely Reimagined White Family
In addition to modernizing these canon events, Flanagan hints at updates to Carrie’s oppressive upbringing at the hands of her mother, Margaret White (Samantha Sloyan). Dead before the novel begins, we never meet Carrie’s domineering father Ralph, known to carry a bible alongside his gun. Flanagan’s White household will be an altogether different beast. In his version of the story, Carrie and her mother have been hidden away in the unassuming home, forced out of hiding by Ralph’s unexpected death. Perhaps we will finally meet this elusive man whose shadow hangs over his wife and child. Considering the White family’s fundamentalist lifestyle, this reimagining hints at tradwife culture and a home ruled by staunch patriarchal control.
Whereas King’s Carrie has been tormented by her classmates since Kindergarten, Flanagan’s Carrie will be a wide-eyed newcomer to public school, eager to make friends and engage with her peers. We glimpse Carrie cozying up to Chris and the equally popular Sue Snell (Siena Agudong) as she navigates a new social scene. Of course, we know this kindness is part of an elaborate plot designed to lull Carrie into a false sense of camaraderie, setting up an atrocious act of public humiliation. These brief moments of feigned compassion put Sue’s own complicity into question. Will Flanagan’s version of the character find the courage to defend Carrie from vicious bullies or will she succumb to peer pressure and join in the mob mentality?
Perhaps the biggest deviation from King’s original text is the relationship between Carrie and her mother. King’s Margaret White is a horrifically abusive religious zealot whose worldview has been hardened by internalized misogyny. She shames Carrie for menstruating, locks her in a closet to “pray,” and regrets not killing her child in infancy. She’s also responsible for Carrie’s social ostracization. Known to berate her neighbors for their “sins,” Margaret forces her daughter to live by an extreme code of conduct and disallows any potential friends lest they corrupt the girl with their worldly ways.
Flanagan’s version of the character is perhaps just as much a victim as Carrie herself. Also trapped inside her home, his Margaret is overly vigilant, her own trauma manifesting as strict control. Describing a more sympathetic depiction of the iconic villain, Flanagan explains, “Our Margaret White is a woman who fiercely loves her daughter and wants to protect her from this world … [She] doesn’t know how to do that and thinks the way to protect her is to close her off; not punitively, but to create this private utopia.”
Despite this potential softening, Sloyan’s Margaret may still have a sharp edge. Though she has appeared in many Flanagan projects, from Hush (2016) to The Fall of the House of Usher (2023), she is best known for her role as the abhorrent Bev Keane in the poignant saga Midnight Mass (2021). Perhaps inspired by King’s Margaret White, Bev is pious and sadistic, willing to punish anyone who does not adhere to her warped approximation of Catholicism.
Flanagan specifically wrote Margaret with Sloyan in mind, likely remembering the actress’s eerie ability to create deceptive empathy and shift our allegiances on a dime.
Expanding Stephen King’s Telekinetic Universe
While most of King’s story deals with an unthinkable prom night in Chamberlain, Maine, large sections of the semi-epistolary novel see experts debating the nature of telekinesis. Do Carrie’s frightening abilities represent a new phase in human evolution or is the prom night carnage merely a fluke? King settles the debate with a shocking denouement in which a young mother recounts her infant daughter’s ability to dangle her crib toys in midair. We’re left to wonder if she will become another tormented girl who surprises the world with metaphysical strength.
Flanagan plans to build out this brief scene while amplifying themes of female empowerment. After introducing our main cast of characters, episode two will open with an unrelated story in which we meet another girl with the TK gene. Each subsequent chapter will expand this world, building out a roster of telekinetic young women. Considering King’s fondness for stories about powerful kids, often described as possessing “the shining,” Constant Readers will no doubt have their eyes peeled for various Easter Eggs nodding to the author’s vast catalogue.
Giving Carrie Her Own Voice
Perhaps the most striking distinction in Flanagan’s new trailer is the extent to which we hear Carrie’s voice. The sneak peek is fully narrated by the titular prom queen as she demands accountability. “I want to know why,” she explains while detailing Chris’ elaborate plan. Aside from the aforementioned coda, King’s book essentially ends with the aftermath of the prom night tragedy, leaving little time for Carrie to reflect. His shifting narrative does bring the reader into her fragile mind, though not before she’s been cowed by relentless cruelty. We watch Carrie sink into bloodthirsty revenge, but never hear a considered desire for justice or repair.
Flanagan’s original monologue allows Carrie to voice her pain and mourn the life she could have had. We’re also treated to a mug shot-style photo of Chris with a bruised and bandaged face, implying that the mean girl will have to answer for her senseless sadism.
Flanagan is known for filling his series adaptations with heartwrenching speeches that cut to the heart of his thematic intentions, and this teaser seems to follow suit. After years of fans, critics, and scholars analyzing Carrie’s pain, perhaps his modern retelling will offer the titular anti-hero a chance to finally speak for herself.
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